Erle Gardner - The Case of the Drowning Duck

“In order to show that the defendant knew of the deadly gas which would be liberated by...”

Judge Meehan glanced at the clock and interrupted the district attorney to say, “It’s approaching the hour of the afternoon adjournment. The Court would like very much to have an opportunity to make some independent investigations upon this point. It is, quite apparently, a crucial point in the case, one which will be argued at some length. The Court will, therefore, adjourn this case until tomorrow morning at ten o’clock. The defendant is remanded to the custody of the sheriff. Court will take a recess until tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.”

Deputy sheriffs escorted Witherspoon from the courtroom. The judge retired from the bench. Spectators began talking among themselves excitedly. It was quite apparent that the wall of evidence which the district attorney was beginning to erect so remorselessly around the figure of a man who had been so prominent in the life of the community was impressing the spectators.

Lois Witherspoon, her chin held high, her eyes hard and dry, swept out of the courtroom, disdaining both the looks of pity which were bestowed upon her by some, and the stares of contempt which she encountered from others.

Back in his suite at the hotel, Mason stretched out in a comfortable chair, said to Della Street, “This feels good after those hard chairs in a courtroom.”

Della said, “You kept looking as though you wanted to get on your feet and charge into the fray.”

“I did,” Mason admitted.

“From all I can hear, he’s making a pretty good case against Witherspoon.”

Mason smiled. “Perhaps Witherspoon will suffer enough to learn a little charitable compassion. He’ll know now how Horace Adams felt eighteen years ago. Heard anything from Paul Drake yet?”

“No.”

“You transmitted my message to him?”

“Yes. I told him you wanted that girl from the Allgood Detective Agency shadowed, that you wanted to know, as far as possible, everything Roland Burr had done the day we arrived, as well as the day before.”

“Prior to being kicked by the horse,” Mason said, smiling. “After that, he stayed put.”

She said, “Drake’s working on it. He’s been in and out all day, sending telegrams and talking over the telephone. He has a couple of detectives down here working. He said he’d be here in time for a cocktail before dinner.”

Mason said, “Well, I’ll go in my room and take a bath and change my clothes. I never saw humanity packed into a courtroom quite so closely. They exude moisture, odor, and interest. I feel sticky all over.”

He went to his own room and was halfway through a bath when Paul Drake came in. “My gosh, Perry, I don’t know whether it’s mind reading or how you do it, but you certainly do get the damnedest hunches!”

“What this time?” Mason asked.

“About that mysterious Miss X in the old murder case, Corine Hassen.”

“What about her?”

“We’ve located her.”

“Where?”

“In Reno, Nevada.”

“Dead?” Mason asked.

“Yes.”

“Murdered?”

“She jumped into Donner Lake and committed suicide. The body wasn’t identified, but police had photographs on file.”

“When?” Mason asked.

“Apparently just about the time David Latwell was murdered.”

“The date is very, very important,” Mason said.

“I have it all here for you, including photographs of the body.”

“You say she wasn’t identified?”

“No. The body was absolutely nude when it was found, and they never discovered any of her clothes. Apparently a damned attractive young woman. The verdict was that it was suicide. You can compare these photos. It’s Corine Hassen, all right.”

“Do you, by any chance, know whether she could swim?” Mason asked.

“I haven’t found that out, but I’ll be finding it out rather shortly.”

Mason said, “Things are beginning to take shape.”

“I don’t get you, Perry,” Drake said. “Honestly, I don’t.”

Mason dried himself with a towel, laid out clean underwear. Once more that peculiar granite-hard look was on his face.

“How about that girl from the Allgood Detective Agency?”

“Sally Elberton. We’re having her shadowed.”

“You can put your finger on her any minute?”

“Yes.”

Mason said, “Unless I’m very much mistaken, Lois Witherspoon is going to serve an ultimatum on me tonight. And I wouldn’t doubt if I heard from her father.”

Drake said, “I’ve got some more dope for you on Roland Burr. He came into town quite frequently, buying photographic supplies and things of that sort. The day that you came down from Palm Springs — the day he was kicked by the horse — he seems to have been particularly active. He went into town four or five times. Apparently he was getting photographic supplies, and doing errands. But he went to the post office a couple of times. On one trip his wife wasn’t with him.”

Mason paused in the act of putting on his shirt. He asked, “Did you inquire particularly at all of the places where parcels could be checked, to see if he had...”

“That’s another thing you were right on,” Drake said. “At the Pacific Greyhound depot, he left a parcel, received a check in return for it, and so far as I’ve been able to find out, never returned for that particular parcel. The girl on duty doesn’t remember him doing so.”

“Wait a minute,” Mason said. “There were several girls on duty there.”

Drake nodded. “That’s where the broken-leg business comes in handy.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, you see that parcel was checked around noon of the day when his leg was broken. The girl who was on at the checking station goes on duty at nine o’clock in the morning and gets off at five o’clock in the afternoon. By five o’clock, his leg was broken. Obviously, he couldn’t have gone down after he’d broken his leg.”

“How about that package?” Mason asked.

Drake said, “The package is gone. Therefore, someone must have presented the pasteboard claim check.”

“The girl doesn’t remember who called for the package?”

“No. She remembers Burr, but she doesn’t remember the package particularly. It was just a small package done up in brown paper. She thinks it was about the size of a cigar box, but she can’t be certain. They have quite a few packages checked in and out.”

“The girl who waits on that parcel-checking counter has other duties?” Mason asked.

“Yes. She also runs the magazine stand and acts as cashier at the soda fountain.”

“No chance someone sneaked around the counter and got that package without presenting a claim check, is there?”

“None whatever,” Drake said. “They’ll swear to that. They keep a pretty close watch on those packages — and a person would have to raise up a section of the counter to get in and out.”

Mason said, “Well, I guess that gives me an out, but I don’t mind telling you, Paul, it was a close squeeze.”

Drake watched the lawyer drawing on his trousers, said, “You don’t need to be so darn smug about it. What are you holding out on me?”

“Nothing,” Mason said. “The cards are all on the table. Find out anything about Burr having a Winterburg City background?”

Drake said, “That’s another thing you were right on. Burr lived in Winterburg City.”

“When?”

“I don’t know exactly when, but it was several years ago. He was in the insurance business there.”

“What did he do after that?” Mason asked.

“Went out to the coast and got in on a big parking-station deal, getting some leases, and that stuff. He ran the parking station for a while afterwards. Since then, he’s been in half a dozen things. There’s a gap in his life. I can’t find anything from about 1930 to 1935. I don’t think he ever went back to Winterburg City, though.”